


What if...

by ianavi



Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - books & concerts, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cigarettes, Classical Music, Developing Relationship, First Date, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Morning After, Pianist!Sherlock, Piano Kink, Sleeping Together, Smoking, Summer heatwave, Tears, Twitter, novelist!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if... John wrote books instead of a blog, Sherlock played piano instead of a violin. A novelist and a pianist connect through books and concerts. And Twitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A book signing was the least stressful of promotional events. In fact, John enjoyed them. Smiles, brief exchanges, with people who had read some of his work, friends who came for support, shoppers who thought a signed book would make an interesting present, he even had a few fans. It was easy, casual. There were bookmarks that matched the glossy cover and wine gums in a glass bowl. And the book. Another book that took almost a year to finish and now was finally out. He knew it was a good one and was thrilled to share it with the world.

He wasn't unknown, but neither a publishing superstar. And the new book, the second in a series, was selling surprisingly well. Mostly as an ebook. But some still preferred the hardback. And a stack of these was what he was signing today.

"No, not really a sequel. But it is set in the same city, a trilogy of sorts..."

"And how do you spell that..."

"Yes, already working on the next one although it's going slow..."

The small crowd had thinned out and he was thinking of taking a break to stretch his legs. He got up just in time to see two men approaching. And promptly sat back down.

Oh, fucking hell.

John thought of himself as an easygoing person who enjoyed simple things, didn't need much. Besides writing. Didn't like to complicate life more than necessary. He supplemented his income with a part-time copy editing job, wrote at least four days a week but usually daily. Lived frugally, went on morning runs, drank lots of tea, managed a date once in a while, listened to music.

And lately that was classical music. And almost exclusively performed by one man.

He'd not been a fan before. Not by far. His taste in music was in tune with the radio's top 40. It was mostly background noise, as he worked, wrote, ran, commuted. On headphones, his kitchen radio, in the shops. He never bought CDs or downloaded songs, music was present but of no special significance in his life.

Couple of winters ago, stuck on his sofa with a bad flu, he watched a BBC documentary. A thin, graying, twitchy man in his forties sat at a piano and excitedly spoke about something. John was just about to switch the channel when the pianist started to play. He dropped the remote.

It was exceptional. He couldn't take his eyes away from the pianist's hands. The complexity of the composition and the absolute control of the man over the instrument.

At the time he had no idea the composer was Chopin. And the pianist playing the etude was Sherlock Holmes.

After the program finished he went online. There were youtube videos of the man playing and he watched them all. Made more tea, checked on his waning fever, read wikipedia pages, watched more videos, set up an account for a music streaming service on his phone.

First he only listened. Always amazed, and in time humming along to some of his favorites.

Then, as months passed, Sherlock's interpretations became a constant companion as he wrote. The last two books, one reviewer had remarked on his 'leap into a complex darkness', were shaped as much by his hands on the computer keyboard as Sherlock's on the piano keys. He did away with easy dialogue of his first books and introduced difficult characterization, disquieting situations and plot lines. There was lots of Beethoven and not a happy ending in sight.

He was also, and with a great sense of shame, effectively stalking Sherlock's Twitter feed, following daily updates and clicking on all links, staring at photos of meals, friends, pianos. There were a lot of photos of pianos.

And now the man himself was walking towards where he sat next to a stack of books. He grabbed one and cracked the stiff spine open.

"Any good?" Sherlock stood in front of him, grinning, and pointed to the book.

It felt surreal. He'd heard the voice so often and now it was addressing him.

"Read it and tell me if it's any good." His voice was almost steady. "Would you like a signed copy?"

"Yes, please. You know, I really enjoyed the last one."

John looked up. He was not going to blush like an infatuated idiot. "You read it?"

"Yes, Mike here bought me a copy. He's a fan."

Mike reached out to shake his hand. "Mike Stamford, so pleased to meet you in person."

He signed a book for Mike who thanked him. "And who should I make this one out to?" He looked at Sherlock who was running a hand through his unruly hair, his white shirt stretching over his thin frame. John couldn't take his eyes off those long fingers.

"To Moriarty." Sherlock said and laughed through his teeth nervously. "The demon inside my head." And as his smile cracked there was incredible vulnerability in his expression.

John nodded and set to it. Usually he'd only do the shortest dedication and sign, but with Sherlock standing in front of him he put away the marker and took out his own pen.

He knew he couldn't communicate what he felt, he knew his emotions were misplaced, inappropriate, a reflection of his own projection of who Sherlock was. As he wrote he felt a bit nauseous. And still, he couldn't help himself.

He closed the book and placed it into Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"Thanks." He opened the cover while checking his jacket pocket with his other hand. "Oh no, I've forgotten my bloody glasses again."

Mike reached for the book. "I'll read it to you."

John got up quickly. "No." They both looked at him. "It's a personal dedication. You should read it yourself."

And Sherlock snapped the book shut with a grin. "Well, better get home and find the spectacles then. Nice meeting you John."

And just as they were leaving, John still awkwardly standing with the pen in his hand, Sherlock turned around and winked at him.


	2. Chapter 2

It was six in the morning and he was laying in bed and staring into the screen of his phone. Holding it with both hands as if it were likely to fly off.

Sherlock had tweeted about his new book. Again.

Five days had passed since the book signing and their meeting. Since then Sherlock had mentioned his book three times. 

Three fucking times. 

An Instagram photo of it on the music rack of his own piano two days ago with the caption 'scary lovely'. He had had to clean up the shards of his dropped tea cup. Cut one finger in the process, too.

A quote from page 27 with a screaming emoticon.

And finally, just minutes ago, a fucking selfie in dim morning light, disheveled grayish hair on crushed pillow, reading glasses. And the caption, 'spent the night with @watson_novelist, trembling, what a ride'.

Trembling, indeed. John groaned into his pillow.

His publisher was thrilled at exposure to the 40K+ of Sherlock's followers, retweets from numerous known and unknown people, a noticed uptick in online sales. His editor was asked to see that he reply, retweet, re... He refused.

His own rather perfunctory Twitter feed, one post a week, retweets of his publisher's promotional feed, barely any exchange and a pitiful number of followers, suddenly necessitated the involvement of one of the publisher's interns. He assumed the poor soul rolled their eyes over his Longreads links and last week's blurry 'Yorkshire pudding @ Mom's!' photo.

He got up leaving the phone on the bed and went into the bathroom to take a slightly too cool wake up shower.

Sipping his tea and chewing on some burnt toast, the phone intentionally still far away on his bed, John attempted to read the paper. And failed. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

OK, fine.

He sat down at his desk and opened up his laptop.

'Reply to @SHolmesPianist'

He then proceeded to stare at the screen for almost ten minutes while sipping his now lukewarm tea. He was not taking a fucking selfie, not even for bloody Sherlock Holmes. Trembling. Fuck.

He made a large pot of fresh tea. Put the radio in the kitchen on, turned it off. Then wasted several more minutes randomly surfing while the Twitter tab in the background was staring him down as if challenging him.

No, not a direct reply.

'The perfect #summermorning - #Scriabin performed by @LPOrchestra.'

There. Done. He unplugged the blue ethernet cable and the laptop was offline. The way he kept it while he wrote. And he was ready to sit down and write for several hours. Bursting with a nervous energy, somewhat angry with himself, his ridiculous obsession with Sherlock Holmes, the character in the third installment of his trilogy who clearly resembled the pianist in appearance and who was about to engage in a fist fight in this chapter.

Fist fight, torn shirt and bloodied lip. Some bitter dialogue. Another tea pot long empty. He was ready for a break.

He eyed the ethernet cable and decided on a pre-lunch run instead. The day was truly a beautiful one. And he'd put in four focused hours of work, which was good.

He was back from his run, drenched with sweat and ready for another shower. It was one of those rare clear sunny days when the light in his flat looked extraordinary and he felt somehow invincible.

It didn't feel like a day for reheated take away so he set about preparing a large salad with tuna and boiled eggs. Humming to the radio and thinking of an evening at the pub with some of his friends. He went to find his phone.

'learning #Scriabin piano sonata no.2 op 19 #summermorning'

And John shivered.


	3. Chapter 3

It continued. The game.

'#fuckfuckfuckinsomnia'

'Early morning start and a new chapter done. #timeforarun'

So, naturally, next morning John read...

'early start #timeforawank'

A video, a close up of Sherlock's hands as he rehearsed.

A quote from the book he was still working on, something John had never done before, depicting a retracing of the character's steps through the busy city.

'for fucks sake stop with the miserable piano competitions!!! #boooooring #automata'

'Enjoying the luncheon in honor of my fellow writers, trading tips: https://www.facebook.com/events/367... #amwriting #writingtips'

An image of a score heavily marked up in pencil. 

Links to articles ranging from terrestrial sonar to architecture as an art of interrupting shadows, his research for the upcoming chapters.

'six hour practise session, time to soak #loveit #hotbath #paperbooksrule'

And after a series of photos of a Bach chord written by a wrinkled finger on the steamed up mirror tiles, fragments of reflected wet skin, chest and shoulders and neck visible, John was contemplating #timeforawank.

Several great reviews were out and all was ready for another book signing in two days. He was amused by the contradiction between the neatly scheduled arrangement of pages and dates on one side of life and the chaos of his inner turmoil on the other.

And he had no idea how to initiate something more. Without publicly embarrassing himself for all of the internet to enjoy.

'Total darkness, bed, headphones, live recording. #goosebumps #classicalmusic'

'don't be afraid of things because they're easy to do #obliquestrategies'

The rain was relentless. A true tropical storm the city was unprepared for. The only people in the bookshop with him were the sales staff and two poor souls who came in to dry off and had no idea who he was and no plans to buy a book.

After an hour he was ready to pack up and leave having exhausted multiple small talk topics with the accommodating staff. Well, one more hot tea for the road, it was easing up a bit out there but he still stood to get wet.

"A bit of a drizzle today." He heard a familiar voice just behind him. "I wouldn't mind a cup myself."

Sherlock stood there, hair and jacket completely drenched, glasses fogging up, a smile that resembled a nervous tic.

"Hello." John croaked.

And they grinned at each other like a pair of lunatics.

"Sign many books?" He took off his glasses to wipe them with the edge of his shirt.

John glanced around the empty shop. "Yeah, loads, a ton."

Neither of them attempted to fabricate an excuse for why Sherlock was there. Instead, they sat next to the book pile and sipped tea. Sherlock spoke of an upcoming concert and anxiously touched at his wet hair.

"How do you manage? Without a score, I mean?"

"You've heard me play, in concert?" He was all eager, actually sitting up straighter in his chair.

"No, never live. Just... online, you know..." John shrugged.

"Why not? Well, you have to come this time." Sherlock kept pulling on his shirt, twirling his glasses in his hand, adjusting the mess of his hair, and speaking incredibly fast. "Nothing beats live, certainly not the shitty quality of sound of fucking youtube videos. I have an amazing programme, the venue is cool. Chopin and Bach! I'll get you a ticket. Or... tickets, so you can bring someone?" He stuck the smudged glasses back on his nose and shut up abruptly.

John wanted to touch him.

"I already got a ticket. For myself." John the stalker, yeah.

"Great... that's great." He grinned. "And you can't use a printed score in a recital, not cool. Unforgivable unless you're... Richter! Yeah! It's supposed to be all mastery and being one with the music. Muscle memory in the hands." John had no idea but nodded.

And he held his up to John, wiggling his long fingers.

And John felt a wave of arousal wash over him. Fuck.

"It's fine. We all go through mnemonic training. And anyway music is all patterns, motives, phrases that repeat, themes. The bastards that brag about playing 100,000 notes from memory never talk about how they spend hours segmenting it into manageable bits. Still it takes work. Being a concert pianist means endless hours at the piano. Thankfully we have the internet to connect to other humans, ones who actually go outside, see the sun and all that..."

Sherlock was so animated, an explosion of nervous energy, tics and quirks and all. And John just sat astonished.

"Oh, and I got the Scriabin down. You'll love it." Sherlock blurted out and promptly got up, so John did too panicked that he was about to leave.

"Smoke?" Sherlock waved a pack in his direction.

The rain had calmed down mostly. They stood side by side under the shop's awning. Sherlock lit the cigarette and put it to his lips. And took a long drag closing his eyes. John was openly staring at those damp lips as Sherlock blew it out slowly and squinted back at him. How much he wanted to just kiss him now.

"I've cut down. But still... It's an indulgence. Helps with performance anxiety..."

And John slowly took the hand holding the cigarette and brought its long fingers to touch his own lips as he pulled a puff of smoke in deep, feeling the damp skin touch his, hearing Sherlock's broken inhale that matched his own. It was intimate, erotic even.

As he exhaled Sherlock threw the cigarette away into the rain and wrapped both hands around John's face, tracing along his skin with his thumbs. The rain resumed with ferocity.

"You are a mystery John Watson. And I want to unravel you." As he spoke he leaned down until John could feel Sherlock's breath on his own mouth. He bit at the skin of his bottom lip and with a groan Sherlock kissed him. 

It was soft and slow and restrained at first. Barely a few brushes of lips. But then Sherlock pushed him against the wall and leaned his whole body into him, sucking and licking at his lips.

John squirmed, breathing hard. "We... I can't do this here." He pointed to the shop's window. "My face is on the fucking poster."

And they laughed. Easily, happily. Getting both wet as the relentless rain won against the canvas awning.

"A new sales strategy?" Sherlock's glasses we're again foggy and his hair was sticking out at all angles.

"My place?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, John."


	4. Chapter 4

Their quick escape was thwarted by a young journalist who ran in as John was packing up and politely asked for an interview. John sat back next to the books to answer some questions and Sherlock went outside to smoke assuring him that he didn't mind waiting. The rain had stopped.

Half an hour later John was finally done and, after thanking the sales staff, went out to search for Sherlock. But he wasn't there.

John stood in front of the bookshop for a while, thinking Sherlock might have left to get a snack or something and might be back any minute. After a while it was clear he had gone.

He spent the evening feeling miserable. How did he fuck this up? Should he have said no to the interview? He didn't even have his phone number. And they had never exchanged any direct messages. He kept picking up his phone and setting it back down unsure what to do. Perhaps Sherlock reconsidered, or had his fun and ran.

The following two days were a progression of slow, empty minutes. He didn't manage to write much. And Sherlock had not posted anything online, which was totally out of character for a man who usually had several updates each day.

So he took on more hours of editing work. Ran longer distances. Stayed off Twitter. Feeling dejected.

And after a week returned to the book in force. His characters, brittle and confrontational already, tore at each other through acts of cruel emotional violence and even more devastating sexual encounters.

He blasted Rachmaninoff as auditory self-punishment. Punishment for what, he had no idea.

And time was running out. Sherlock's concert was in two days. He had the ticket on the desk next to his laptop. On top of the unwrapped CD he had planned to take to the signing that followed the recital. Fuck.

So he finally checked again. The most gorgeous eyes stared back at him from Sherlock's profile photo. He scrolled down without taking in much.

He got up, went to the kitchen and proceeded to locate the bottle of red wine he had received as a gift from his publisher after the first installment of the trilogy came out. It was something expensive. He didn't even own a proper wine glass.

So, armed with a very full glass he sat back down at his laptop.

Music, it was only music. No more photos of honey drizzled cakes, broken glasses, steamed up mirrors, crazy grinning selfies, random quotes, strange stuff found on the internet, books or films or shoes. 

After his absence Sherlock returned to post sheet music marked in pencil, short videos of rehearsing, messing up, and continuing to rehearse a single tricky phrase, updates about tickets for the upcoming concert, links to videos of performances by other pianists. No witty comments. In most cases no comment at all.

John still read through it all. Twice. And played and replayed one of the videos, Sherlock's hands, fingers hitting the piano keys.

He arrived at the concert hall too early, dressed in his best suit, found his seat and waited reading the programme notes.

When Sherlock took the stage, wrapped in formal white tie, staring at his feet, and all nervous tics, the audience greeting drowned out John's sharp inhale. He looked fragile and anxious. And devastatingly beautiful.

And then his hands touched the piano's keys. The first adagio brought shivers down John's spine. But what followed was a furious and passionate recital that seemed to increase in tempo up to a point where John felt they were all sitting on the edge of their seats and wondering if he'll make it to the end. He did.

It was at once the most poignant and the most seductive thing John had ever experienced. By the end he was unsettled. Shaking through the roaring applause and several encores. He had to see him, even if it resulted in awkwardness or embarrassment.

He patiently queued for the signing, straightening his hair and trying not to blurt out something idiotic when his turn finally came.

"John..." Sherlock got up. And broke into a crooked smile. For a silent moment they started at each other and John felt like an animal caught in a car's headlights. Then Sherlock took off.

"You came. Of course you came. What did you think of the Scriabin? Mangled some notes there but I was nervous. Did good with Bach, though, right? Here, I should sign something, the crowd will get restless, probably riled up some gray heads with that last encore, right?" Crackling laughter and blinking eyes and an extended hand. John handed him the CD. "The Rachmaninoff preludes? Fantastic, John. Probably my best recording. Well, as good as can be with me thwacking the piano, right?" He then finally sat down gripping the CD and marker. "What should I write?"

John's voice was shaky. "Your phone number?"

Sherlock's shoulders visibly relaxed a notch. He smiled, blinked again, and set to work covering most of the booklet with notation. Adding the number at the end.

John had to leave as more people were waiting. Sherlock gave him a small wave then returned to the crowd.

It was a warm evening and he decided to walk for a stop or two before catching the bus home. He was holding the CD and smiling. What a madman.

Sitting on the bus he took out his phone and punched the number into it. And sent a brief text, 'This is my number. John Watson', then added 'Thank you for the impressive performance tonight.' And hit send.

His phone beeped almost immediately.

'are you still around? drink? or anything?'

He rubbed his eyes, his stop was almost here and it would take too long to catch another bus back.

'On the bus, almost home, unfortunately. Rain check?'

'what's your address?' John blinked. 'shit, too forward? sorry'

But John sent him the address. There was no reply. He sighed.

And as he took off his shoes and jacket, setting the phone and CD next to his laptop, the doorbell rang.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock bloody Holmes standing in his kitchen, as he made them tea. Surreal.

"How do you take it?"

Sherlock laughed nervously. "Three spoons of sugar?"

John looked over his thin frame. "Seriously? Well, ok."

They took their tea to the sofa in the sitting room. Sherlock held his with both hands, John could hardly take his eyes off them, and blew at the surface as steam fogged up his glasses, taking small sips of the hot liquid. He looked exhausted and John wondered how drained he must be after the tremendous effort of performing. And still he came.

Unsure of how to start John made an obvious comment. "You changed." He gestured at the suit jacket, gray shirt and dark jeans. Which looked fine, and helped push the lingering phantasy of slowly unwrapping Sherlock out of his white tie to the back of his mind.

"I rush to get out of it, usually I get rid of it the moment I'm done. The conservative old twats love it, of course. I think it puts off some the younger audience. Not that I'm a trendsetter or anything. No beat up Converse shoes and crazy hair." Sherlock looked slightly self-conscious for the briefest moment and straightened the front of the jacket. "Well, maybe the hair."

John noticed Sherlock was blushing, while feigning an air of indifference. He looked so tempting.

"This is where you write?" Sherlock nodded towards the laptop on the desk.

"Yeah. Great thing about this work is you just need a computer. That's it."

"Portable." Sherlock took off his glasses and set them on the nearby side table. "Unlike a piano."

"Well, there are digital pianos these days?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, got up, setting his half-drunk tea cup next to the glasses and stepped towards the desk. "John, I will pretend I did not hear that." He mumbled under his voice. "Digital fucking plastic toy pianos."

John laughed. "All right, all right." He got up to follow him. "I do have preferences, too." They stood next to the desk and Sherlock curiously looked around. At what, John did not know. "Always the same laptop manufacturer, same text editor, same size of font... for over a decade now."

"It's just the laptop? No, notebooks, or... I don't know, reference books, writer stuff?" He reached out and touched the unplugged blue ethernet cable with one long pale finger, then the CD with his dedication. A small anxious smile on his beautiful lips.

"It's all online, or on my laptop. I don't need much." He pointed at the cable. "And I stay offline while I write."

"Could I see it, the new book?" Sherlock gave him another small tight smile.

John was stumped. "See, the unfinished manuscript? What for?"

"Do you mind?"

"No, no, but nothing much to see." John pulled out his chair, sat down and opened the laptop. A pale gray desktop appeared, completely empty except for one link. John clicked on the link and a simple text editor window opened filled with writing. Sherlock was staring with avid interest, one hand nervously playing with the edge of his jacket. 

"Have about 60% of the new one done. The first draft, that is. There will be lots of editing to polish it, take care of inconsistencies, style."

Sherlock leaned down, one hand seemingly casually set on John's shoulder, and peered into the screen.

"How do you come up with the idea, characters, all of it? I don't understand..."

"Oh, I don't know. Compensating for a boring life, maybe? They say writers write to decipher the life around them, things they cannot explain away. Or, I guess, need to spend years trying to explain to themselves."

Sherlock straightened back up, but the hand stayed. John felt its warmth through his shirt, a small stir of arousal surprising him. "So, you just sit down and fill the page? I mean screen? With no aids. Just your mind." Sherlock nodded towards the emptiness of the desk. "In complete silence?"

John felt his face redden even more and looked down at his own hands on the laptop's keyboard. "I do listen to music when I work."

And with a mention of music Sherlock became more animated and his hand gripped John. "Oh, show me! Not radio I hope? OK, some radio is fine, I also do radio once in a while. Please, tell me it is not top of the something or other, teenage overhyped and overproduced atrocities who couldn't recognize a G clef if it bit them..." He abruptly stopped and pulled his hand back. "I... my apologies." He looked stricken. "I don't mean to sound like a pompous ass." He tugged at the jacket. "Not everyone thinks classical music is... " He went silent and looked nervously around the room, cheeks pink, hands twitching.

John's throat felt dry. Fuck he looked breathtaking. "No, no, it's fine. I do mostly listen to classical lately. A late start, but getting there."

Calmed a bit Sherlock looked around. "But you have no speakers. Headphones?"

"No, just the laptop. I play it on the laptop as I work."

Sherlock's eyes were bulging out with disdain but he kept his lips tightly shut.

And John felt bold. "I know, laptop speakers. But here, let me show you why."

John got up and gestured to Sherlock to take his seat. He then leaned over, typed in a command and the screen filled with a list. He selected one item and a slow deliberate piano composition started to play.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Bach, French Suites." His face lit up. "John, this is me, my recording."

"Put your hands on the keyboard. As if to write something."

Sherlock did. And his elegant hands and long fingers looked unbelievably alluring on the black keys.

"When I write I spend a lot of time just thinking, developing the next line of dialogue or situation, staring into nothing. Sometimes it helps that the music is... under my fingertips. The vibration, the energy of it, effort and emotion of the performance. As if I can touch it." He was almost daring enough to say 'touch you'.

"John..." Sherlock spread his fingers over the keyboard reverently and stared at the screen in front of him. "You have all my recordings, everything."

"Come on, the tea must be half cool by now." He paused the music, took Sherlock by the hand and led him back to the sofa.

Sherlock sat down, picked up his tea and took a long sip. "John, how long have you known me? I mean, how long since you first heard of me, heard me play?"

"It was the BBC programme. I heard you then. It made an impression I guess. I listened to some things after that, started playing it as I wrote."

Sherlock set the cup down. "That programme... It was three fucking years ago." He rubbed his eyes in a fatigued gesture then looked back at the laptop, his voice small. "I've been here, in this room, with you, for three fucking years?"

"You're not bad company." John smiled.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, a tic shook him. "No, I'm awful company." He sighed. "I need to apologize for running off during your interview. John, I am sorry. I... I panicked."

John took one of the trembling hands and shrugged. "You're here now."

"I'm not very good at this. Miserably bad actually. All spastic and vulgar tweets and all. Inappropriate, aggressive, needy. We really are the most wretched bunch, classical musicians. Obsessed with things the rest of the world doesn't care about, out of fashion and out of sorts. Autistic and locked away in our practise rooms, wanking at our pianos..." He coughed. "And I saw that woman and... really, there was no comparison. Why would you take me home when..."

John interrupted him. "What woman?"

"The one who interviewed you. All blond hair, long legs, white teeth, fit and perfect and clearly willing, laughing and touching your knee." He cleared his throat. "I didn't think I'd see you again after that."

He was dumbfounded and just stared for a moment longer while Sherlock started fidgeting and pulling his hand away. John reached out and brushed his cheek. "You have no idea... Sherlock..." And he pulled him closer and finally, finally kissed him again. And Sherlock moaned into the kiss and crumpled into John's hands. He tasted of sugar, tea and cigarettes. John could barely contain his eagerness as he sucked and licked his way into Sherlock's soft open lips.

"You are gorgeous, unbelievably gorgeous." He slid his hands under Sherlock's jacket to trace his thin back and started sucking small love bites into the side of his neck. "I thought so the first time I saw you on TV, every time you posted a photo online. And the first time I saw you in person you took my breath away." Sherlock was shivering and making small sounds of pleasure.

John unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his narrow, all the while kissing at his neck and jaw. "Seeing you perform live tonight was incredibly... erotic." He kissed Sherlock passionately while sliding his hands down his back and sides to hold his waist possessively, eager to touch more, feel more. And all the time aware of Sherlock's beautiful hands on the back of his head, neck. 

The thought of those hands touching him everywhere... "Please, let me take you to bed."

Sherlock pulled back to look at him, panting. "John... I'll fuck this up. I fuck everything up..."

John looked at his anxious expression and moved to take both Sherlock's quivery hands in his. "Do you want this, want me?"

"I do, I really do."

"Then we're fine. Whatever happens, or doesn't happen, we're fine. All right?" He kissed him again and smiled, exhilarated.

"Yes, John." He cracked a small smile, his demeanor shifting towards a show of bold desire. "So, you were... taking me to bed?"

John got up and, standing directly in front of Sherlock, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then took it off. He then got rid of his trousers, briefs and socks in one move. He was now totally naked and visibly aroused and clearly on display for Sherlock who starred with his lips slightly open.

Sherlock reached out and slid two long fingers up John's thigh. "John..."

"Come on." John took his hand, pulled him up from the sofa and kissed him. Sherlock slid his hands around him and grabbed John's buttocks with a groan. The kiss was longer than either expected.

As he led Sherlock to his bedroom and the bed itself, John was astonished this was really happening. They sat side by side on the bed and Sherlock raised his hands to unbutton his shirt. John looked at his pale fingers.

"Let me. Please." He brought his own hands to cover Sherlock's as he took over ridding him of his shirt, unbuttoning his jeans, sliding them down to discover Sherlock was naked underneath. Sherlock winked at his brief bewilderment with a wide grin.

All the while John was kissing every bit of alabaster skin he could reach. He pulled off the jeans and socks soon enough and took a moment to look at the truly beautiful man who was aroused and now blushing, reaching for the edge of the bedspread. 

"You are stunning, Sherlock, I can't believe I am allowed this."

He crawled up until he was straddling him and leaned in for another fervent kiss. One of Sherlock's hands grabbed the back of his neck and the other immediately slid down to John's bottom to knead the muscle. With a smirk John allowed himself to be pulled tight to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock was openly moaning and shivering. The kiss became messier and John felt small thrusts push up. He opened his knees wider and rubbed his stomach and cock against the milky sweat-damp skin. 

Clearly trying to calm down a bit, Sherlock withdrew just enough to bite at John's neck, bringing his hand up to trace John's lips with his fingertips. John's broken, stuttering breath spoke volumes. Two fingers pushed into his mouth.

"Suck."

John did, messily and shamelessly, loudly. Sherlock pushed deeper while reaching with his other hand to at last envelop John's engorged cock. John was almost sobbing with desire.

Sherlock whispered, pulling far too gently, sliding his thumb over the glans. "Since I first saw you you've been staring at my fingers." John licked and sucked harder. "And every time I thought about what they could do to you, John."

Slowly, the fingers were withdrawn, wet and slick. And the hand slid around him and down his back. "Spread yourself open for me."

John closed his eyes and felt his face burn but did as he was told, taking one buttock in each hand as he tilted his hips back. He was rewarded with a couple of harder tugs on his cock.

As the tip of Sherlock's fingers rimmed the exposed ring of muscle John started outright sobbing. And when Sherlock let go of John's cock to start pumping his own, the sobs turned into desperate pleas and full body jerks. Still, John kept himself in the same tiring position, on his knees, spread out with his hands behind his back.

"Please... please..."

Sherlock pushed one long finger in just a bit and John started grinding against it immediately, his very thick cock hitting the back of the hand Sherlock was now furiously working over his own. He had never been so aroused. The stunning man he straddled looked at him with such lust.

"You are so beautiful Sherlock, so fucking sexy." And the man yelled, pushing his long finger fully and almost painfully into John, pumping as thick streams of semen covered his fist and chest. His whole body spasmed strongly almost unseating John.

John pushed forward to kiss him, panting and biting. And shaking as Sherlock took his cock in hand again and started a relentless rhythm. John was caught between the two hands, brokenly gasping between kisses, jerking his hips, his face wet with tears. His orgasm was surprisingly sudden, rough, leaving him shivering on top of Sherlock.

They lay in silence embracing each other, sweaty, filthy, happy. John lay his face against Sherlock's chest as he whispered, exhausted and breathy. "John, I plan to make up for the three years we missed. Sleep now."


	6. Chapter 6

John woke to the sound of the shower. It was a bright, sunny morning. He'd slept through the night. And Sherlock was still here.

He sat up and looked down his naked body and the bed, all crumpled sheets, the bedspread on the floor. The room was stuffy and smelled of sweat and sex. He felt amazing.

And just then Sherlock walked in, naked but for a towel wrapped low on his hips, hair wet, smiling, with his mobile in hand.

"Hello." John said.

"Good morning. Sleep well?" Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, the smile still there, smelling of cigarette smoke and toothpaste.

"Yeah, really well. And you stayed."

"Of course I stayed." He waved the mobile. "A sexy man waiting for me in bed. Plus updates and bed selfies to tweet, @watson_novelist #amazingbuttsex and all that."

John paled.

Sherlock sat next to him on the bed and touched his cheek gently. "I am joking John." Then kissed him slowly and deeply. "The world doesn't get to know how lucky I am, yet. I am keeping the news, and you, all to myself for now. All right?"

"Ok, yeah." He looked down, embarrassed. "Breakfast?"

"Starving." Another kiss and a hand touching his chest and stomach. "It is tempting to just push you back, but I haven't eaten since the concert and might faint on top of you. So, take a shower, and we'll eat. I can manage in the kitchen, I'm sure." And with a truly wicked grin. "Then I can get on top of you."

He took the quickest shower and dressed just as fast, jeans and one of his better t-shirts. When he got to the kitchen Sherlock was frying eggs wearing yesterday's jeans and shirt, sleeves rolled up, feet bare, glasses on top of his unruly head of hair.

"Perfect timing. I couldn't find the tea."

"The left... Never mind, here." John opened a cabinet and took out a large metal box.

It felt strange and at the same time so satisfying, having Sherlock so at home in his kitchen, making breakfast and humming. He felt a rush.

"It suits you."

"What suits me?" Sherlock divided the eggs onto two plates, then moved the plates to the table where a pile of toast was waiting.

"My kitchen." John laughed and was rewarded with a kiss he felt to his core.

"Provoke me and I will tweet."

They sat down to eat.

"You rested? I imagine a concert takes a lot out of you."

"Yes, it does. I do get an adrenalin rush, but at some point I crash. Usually without the amazing sex." He grinned. "I always make sure I'm off the next day. And last night's piano was heavier weighted then I prefer, a bitch."

"It was exceptional." He looked at his plate and wondered if the breakfast was a polite goodbye. He didn't want it to be.

Sherlock took a photo of his half-finished plate, angling the phone to get the tea cup partially in, giggling.

"What is that for?"

"Sentiment. So I can pull it up three years from now." He winked. "#firstbreakfasttogether"

John looked at the energetic man and got up to find his phone. "All right." He took a photo of Sherlock. "I can delete it if you mind. I won't share it."

"Keep it. For the grandkids." He was now laughing hysterically, taking off and replacing his glasses and John rolled his eyes.

They finished breakfast and put away the plates. John made another pot of tea and took it into the sitting room.

"John." Sherlock was looking through the books on his shelf. "You don't mind? Me staying a bit? I could leave now... You probably have to work. And you've been a sensational host." There was a touch of uncertainty in his voice and he kept his eyes on the books.

He sat on the sofa with his tea. "Nope. Don't need to work this morning, nothing on today but an afternoon Skype meeting." He stared at the impressive, sensitive, mercurial man wondering around his flat while tugging one rolled-up sleeve and fidgeting with his glasses. John wondered how he got so lucky. "So, what is the post-concert day like?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Boring. Some stretching exercises, tea, internet, smokes, more sleep, maybe a dinner with a friend, or more internet. Then back to the piano, of course. Every morning, six hours at least, more if I'm feeling anxious about a piece, if I have dates coming up."

"Come here." John poured him another cup and stirred in the excessive sugar.

They sat close together drinking tea and soon Sherlock was curled up against John, his head on John's shoulder.

"So, I haven't fucked this up, yet?" Sherlock's voice was muffled by John's shirt.

John ran his hand through the silky greying curls. "Why would you think that?"

"Bad track record."

"Oh, you take an eager audience member home after every recital, then kick them out at first light?"

"Oh, yeah, the Scriabin groupies are the best at blowjobs." John felt him tense up. "Fuck." Sherlock pushed himself out of John's arms and sat up straight. "I don't..."

"I can take a joke, you know." John pulled him in for a long and very sensual kiss. "I'm not going to run."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck. "You might. Once you find out how tedious, needy and... and sluttish I am."

"We don't have to define things right away. There's time." He touched Sherlock's cheek and lips. "I would like to see you again, very much so."

"I don't have to wait until the next book comes out and you do a signing?" He gestured towards the desk with the laptop.

"I was thinking dinner tomorrow. And before that lunch today? Somewhere in the sun?"

That small smile. "That would be grand. There is a new place near you, with a garden, I haven't been there yet, supposedly it's good."

He pulled him in closer for an embrace and whispered. "Or we could test your Scriabin-blowjob hypothesis..."

"What, in the sun, John!?" And the way Sherlock burst out laughing against the skin of his neck made him shiver.


	7. Chapter 7

John was back from a brutal run, leaning over and drinking straight from the kitchen tap, his soaked t-shirt sticking to his back. The city was experiencing an unprecedented heatwave and his quick daily thirty minute run in the park felt like a footrace in the Sahara. He was desperate for a shower.

But first he checked his phone. And smiled.

'massive argument between me and my head and that bastard is winning #sulking'

A shower and a simple lunch sandwich out of the way, John decided against tea, took a beer from the fridge instead and sat at his desk. The writing had been going well that morning but he still had to tackle his inbox. And decide what to wear to dinner with Sherlock. He couldn't help smile at the thought of him and he typed an update sure it would be read. 

'The sweetest anticipation - #firstdate'

Sherlock had sent him a series of texts last night asking about his preferences for their dinner date - location, food ideas, indoors or outside. There were three messages related to what time John favored. It was ridiculous, and adorable.

And the stream of Twitter updates spoke about how little Sherlock had slept after their late night exchange ended.

'seven o'clock quick flat tidy up leads to decision to burn the place down and start fresh'

'stuffed so much of #awkwardshit under the sofa and now there's no room for my #loosescrews'

'dizzy giddy dizzy giddy dizzy giddy' With a gif of a small dog chasing its tail.

And finally, just as John was about to leave his desk and get ready: 'tie or no tie? come on twittersphere, desperate for tips #firstdatepanic'

Sherlock was already waiting, his phone in his hands, when John arrived. He had finally chosen a pub with casual picnic table seating on its roof, a great idea considering it was still almost uncomfortably hot at eight in the evening.

John leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "Did I keep you waiting?"

Sherlock seemed surprised by the kiss and put his phone away quickly. "John... No, no, perfect timing."

"So, no tie in the end?" He gestured towards Sherlock's open shirt collar.

He giggled and adjusted his glasses. Adorable, truly. "Oh, they were clear on the matter. With the exception of the one sartorial suggestion of 'only the tie and nothing else'. I doubt the taxi driver would appreciate that."

They ordered burgers and beer, ate with their hands. John openly stared as Sherlock licked a finger with a snicker.

"Tell me if it's rude to ask this. I was just wondering, about your work."

"What about it?"

"Did you write anything today?"

"Oh, why would it be rude to ask that?"

"I don't know, writers' performance anxiety?

"I did, just a few pages but some key dialogue to close a situation. And the anxiety doesn't come yet, not while writing, not until the reading bit. At least for me."

"I can't imagine how you do it, come up with the plot, make the characters feel so real."

He shrugged. "Doesn't work every time. And it took me a few books to get better at it."

"Yeah, the first ones don't have the depth..." He shut up with a panicked look.

John laughed. "No, no, you're right. I agree, my editor agrees, the critics have agreed. Please, don't censor yourself."

"The last one is particularly good, I could hardly put it down. The nervous energy, and all the truly filthy relationships. I kept it next to me when I played, for days. Tried to channel that vitality in my own work, I guess." He blushed and took a sip of his beer.

If only he knew, John thought. Perhaps soon. "So, you've read all of my books?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well, yeah. Of course. Only the one before we met, then immediately the new one you signed for me, then the first ones."

"That's dedication. I'm flattered."

"You've had a head start. I'm way behind in getting to know you."

"Hopefully the book I'm now writing won't disappoint. Going well so far, but you can never tell until it's done. And you, a busy day?"

"Like you and the rest of the world haven't had a minute-by-minute rundown. Did only four hours at the piano. And it was a mess. Performance anxiety... of sorts." He was fidgeting in his seat. "A few years ago I had some therapy, anxiety, stage fright, OCD, this and that. Well, like you haven't noticed. We also discussed my oversharing."

John took his hand and gave it a small squeeze. And Sherlock did not let go enveloping the smaller fist with his long fingers.

"John, you have to tell me if you want to set up rules. Otherwise I might mess it up. And I really don't want to mess this up."

"Rules?"

"What can appear online, what can't. I am an approval seeking maniac a lot of the time online. Baiting attention with embarrassing and self deprecating shit." He laughed nervously and shook his head. "Fucking shower selfies."

John laughed with him. "Listen, if you think I might have an issue with something, just ask. All right?"

"Yeah. So when people ask about our date?"

"What do you want to tell them?"

He paused for a moment, blinked with a tic, then looked down. "That I wonder if the waiter has noticed the massive hard on I've been hiding under the napkin... and how soon I can drag you back to my hovel and have my way with you... and if you'll spend the night... or possibly stay indefinitely... " He pushed the palm of his hand over his face, unsettling his glasses and covering his eyes.

Oh. "Let's start with one night and see what happens? And maybe to keep what's under the napkin off Twitter?"

"Sounds like a plan, yeah."

"Anyway, you seem discreet with your dates, never posted anything about any of them, not that I can recall. And I have been following you for a while."

Sherlock snorted. "So your conclusion is that I'm discreet? John, I don't date. I'm practically married to my piano. And not even I update my feed with details of humiliating one night stands with randoms, which is what I manage if I'm lucky..." He squirmed and a box of cigarettes appeared on the table.

"Perhaps we could pay and take a walk?" John nodded towards the cigarettes.

"Date over?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I was hoping you'd show me your piano." He winked.

And Sherlock broke out into a twitchy full-bodied laugh.


	8. Chapter 8

They walked slowly, the evening breeze a welcome companion. Sherlock smoked, gesticulating wildly as he spoke about settling on a selection of compositions for a concert that was still ten months away. John watched him bring the cigarette repeatedly to his lips and pull deep, clear enjoyment on his face every single time. They were both sweaty with the heat and Sherlock's curls clinging messily to his forehead.

"It's a lot of work, but when I finally get it, when I can play a piece from memory without mistakes, it's a great place to be. Perfect place. No distraction, no angst, just me and the music. Of course, then you have to perform it for others and that wrecks the nerves. Inevitably there's a fucking mistake, or someone's phone goes off, or I forget to breathe... Then back home, alone and miserable and not sleeping, and making an arse of myself on Twitter..."

"I've seen the dates on your website, a lot of concerts coming up in the autumn, looks exciting."

"Yeah, I should be practising more, not wanking to the photo on the back cover of..." He laughed hysterically and pointed ahead. "Yeah... just around the corner now. Last chance to escape."

John took his hand. "No, no, meeting the piano, without doubt."

The flat was small and cramped with shelves of books, vinyl records, CDs and piles of sheet music. Everything neatly stacked. The sitting room held one sofa and one very polished upright piano.

Sherlock was giddily showing him around, picking up one score or another from the top of the piano, a bottle of cold beer in his hand. John sat on the sofa with a drink of his own.

"Bach, more Bach, and some more, yeah, Bach. That's for the November recital. Still getting there."

"Next door must know the programme by heart now."

"Oh, no, no." Sherlock left the beer on the floor and sat at the piano, lifting the fallboard to reveal the keys. "It's a special system, silent. Just a press of a button and the hammers go off the strings." He played a little, fingers moving seemingly effortlessly, and all John heard was the press of the keys. "Headphones." He pointed to the pair on top of the piano. "How else would I play at five in the morning when the monsters wake me up." He smiled. "Of course, it still does the real thing."

And after a deep breath and adjustment he winked at John and started playing a quick, sharp composition, hands close and fingers moving with unbelievable mastery, eyes mostly closed. John's mouth went dry at the sight. It was better than the concert - he was so close, he felt the air vibrate with the instrument, with the effort of Sherlock's tense body, the torrent of notes.

The composition ended with a fierce culmination and John realised he was speechless, and undeniably aroused. Oh, fuck.

"The toccata, the bit on the CD you brought for me to sign, next to my number?" Sherlock stretched his arms in front of him with a sigh, adjusted his glasses. "Yeah, excellent seduction technique on my part there..."

"What did I miss, tell me, please?"

"The toccata... in my own way I was trying to tell you..." And his voice grew really quiet. "How much I just wanted to touch you..."

They looked at each other. John could not help smiling, and Sherlock followed suit. So he got up and came to stand next to the piano bench. Sherlock half turned, looked up at him and immediately wrapped one arm around the back of his legs.

"John..." He shifted on the bench and pulled John to sit next to him although there was barely space for both of them. The ensuing very long and slow kiss, Sherlock's hands digging into hips and small moans, had John heavily breathing into his open mouth and trembling as he felt hands on his waist, thighs, buttocks.

John pulled back a bit, one hand cupping Sherlock's jaw, the other tracing along one of his fingers. "You cannot imagine how much you excite me. I've never lusted after someone like this. From afar, pathetically, embarrassingly. To be able to touch you, kiss you... and hear you play, just for me... You're incredible." He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

Sherlock looked down at a very clear outline of an erection, giggled, pulled off his glasses to leave them on top of the instrument, then reached with the tip of the fingers of his right hand to ghost along John's cock. "Oh, you'll like this one." He put more pressure into his touch and John gasped.

He brought only his left hand to the keyboard and started on a solemn but increasingly passionate piece. All the while teasing John with his fingers and palm.

It was incredibly thrilling and John openly moaned at the touch, leaning into Sherlock's side and feeling the intense jerks of his whole body as he played, the vibrations of the instrument just inches from him. He felt exposed, shameless in his disclosed fantasy. So he reached out and placed the tip of the fingers of one hand on the sidearm of the keyboard and just lost it, panting and pushing up into Sherlock's palm.

Suddenly, the composition finished, and Sherlock turned to him for a rougher than expected kiss, biting at his lips savagely as his right hand still stimulated his cock.

"Bed. I want you in my bed, John. Naked." Sherlock started to unbutton and pull open and off first his shirt, then his trousers, all the while sucking aggressively down the side of his neck in a way that was sure to darkly bruise.

John just nodded, small sounds escaping his lips. he was too far gone, his most outrageous dream come to life. In moments he had his trousers and pants down to his ankles and almost choked as Sherlock enveloped his erection with a sure grip and started to slide his fingers at a quick pace. All he could do was hold on as tension coiled deep in him and watch as he orgasmed in a gush, his breathing stuttering to a halt.

It took him a moment to calm down a bit and he looked up to see a mad grin on Sherlock's face.

"Daily practise is about to become much more interesting."

And after all that John blushed a still deeper red. His voice was hoarse. "Bed?"

Sherlock gestured to the sweat soaked shirt clinging to his chest with his semen-covered hand. "Shower?"


	9. Chapter 9

They sat on the sofa side by side, naked, hair still damp from the shower, cold beers in hand, all the windows open as the sun went down and the room was slowly enveloped in darkness. Sherlock kept one hand on John's thigh, lightly scratching through the soft golden hairs and humming.

"I'm getting a bigger shower."

John snickered. "It was... cosy."

"I banged my knee. It'll go purple."

"Lucky for me it's scarf season out there." John gestured towards his well-bitten neck.

"Oh, yeah." Giggles.

"Yeah, oh, yeah. I'm working from home for my editing job next week." He took a sip of his beer. "And the office has air conditioning."

"I could get air conditioning?" Sherlock winked.

They looked at each other. John pulled him in for a kiss.

"We've had the one proper date, in fact it's still ongoing..." He rubbed his nose against Sherlock's.

"Three bloody years, John." He sighed. "Do you know how boring the past three years have been? Wake up, smoke, practise, eat a sandwich, practise, smoke, check e-mail, think the most awful thoughts, abuse Instagram filters, insomnia, repeat."

"Still, why the rush."

"I like the sound of your snoring at dawn?" He reached down to the floor and a cigarette appeared between his lips. He lit it while looking at John.

"I'll complain about the smoke."

"I'll go on patches."

"No you won't."

"No, you're right, I'll smoke on the back balcony and grumble about it." He grinned looking at the glowing tip of the cigarette he was waving around.

"I listen to music on laptop speakers as I write, that won't change."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There is a spare room upstairs, full of my old junk now. You can have it and do such atrocities there."

"Oh, a separate bedroom?" He laughed. "Ouch!" Sherlock had dug his nails into the soft skin of his inner thigh. He then got up and extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray with a huff of smoke coming from his lips.

"We won't be needing two bedrooms, John. I promise you that."

"Still, let's try one night first, all right? I'm not saying no."

"All right." And he held his hand out while the most gorgeous smile shimmered in the semi-darkness.

Settling into bed together was easy. Sherlock pulled him into an embrace with the most satisfied exhale and John just sunk into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I'll finish here for now. RL catching up to me. And Ravel and Bach and more Bach - a storm surge... As with all my AUs, it pains me to leave and I may come back, perhaps even tomorrow... #loveyouall
> 
> \---
> 
> UPDATE: 24 hours in RL were more than enough... #addicted #donttrustme #loveyouallevenmore


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! #addicted #donttrustme #loveyouallevenmore

John had woken cradled in Sherlock's arms. He looked up and was met with a soft kiss on the lips, long fingers touching his back and cheek.

"Good morning. Sleep well in my bed?"

"Yeah, very. You? Been awake long?"

"Not too long." Another even softer kiss.

They'd had tea and toast, complained about the relentless heatwave.

"Plans for the week?"

"Piano. And you." Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows. "I could also combine the two..."

"I have a deadline Thursday, will have to push for it. This heat will slow me down. So, call you before next weekend?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, then laughed nervously staring down into his cup. "So, I shouldn't schedule the movers for Friday? Yeah, no, that's perfect."

John checked the time on his mobile. "Listen... Sherlock... We really need to discuss..." He stood up and started towards the sitting room to get his things. "Or, are you joking?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm cracking jokes all the time. Been meaning to include some stand up comedy in my recitals - some Chopin, some toilet humor, a kind of crossover." He followed John gesticulating energetically. "I'll get you a ticket. Bring your friends too, a sexy date even..." More anxious cackling as one hand waved about.

John took both of his hands. "Slow down. We're doing fine. And we're going to take our time to do this right, ok? No rush?"

"Yeah, yeah, ok." Sherlock hugged him, his body slightly shaky and John held him for a long moment.

The next days were awful. He worked from his flat, stuffy in the sweltering heat. His overheating and crashing computer making it only worse. Still, all the editing work got done a day early and he had managed two early mornings of writing - two new chapters, although one did need more fleshing out.

Sherlock sent texts with random questions about favorite brand of tea, number of books John owned, afternoon napping habits. John couldn't tell how much this had become an in-joke and how much it was a reminder of Sherlock's offer. 

He was truly tempted to just jump in. But he really wanted a chance with Sherlock, a chance for something more permanent, not just a swift wild ride and quick crash. He hadn't lived with anyone for a long time, and then he had been far too young to make it work. Although he had tried. His recent relationships had been brief and moving in together had not come up in conversation, even when times were good. 

For a while he had focused on his writing, the books finally coming along with some success, and hadn't really thought it would happen. Not now. And definitely not with an incredible man he had been watching from afar. It still felt like a dream he might wake up from at any moment.

'how many personal secrets does one have to divulge to people selling linen sheets?!'

'RT @parisreview: Your summer reading bit.ly/18q...'

'#prokofiev makes me #horny'

John responded to all the questions. Called Tuesday evening to hear how Sherlock was doing. They spoke for almost an hour, Sherlock adrenalized and John exhausted from work and heat.

On Wednesday he received an email from a friend from university he hadn't seen in a while. Bill was in town just for the day and was reaching out to friends to meet for drinks at his hotel that evening. John confirmed immediately.

It was great fun. Four of them from the old crowd made it, a shrinking number with every year as family and work and geography made it difficult to share a drink and reminisce over old anecdotes. John felt twenty again.

'RT @Bill_T_Murray: Wild Boys!!! #trashedhotelroom' With a blurry photo of the four of them at the hotel bar, hugging, waiving their glasses and grinning like idiots.

The next morning John woke with a bad headache and was extremely thankful he got the work finished the day before. The heat was still unabating. The morning shower and ibuprofen had helped him recover, but only a bit. He tried calling Sherlock twice, but he wasn't picking up. So he sent a text. Again, no response. 

John spent most of the day dragging himself around the flat, too hot and tired to work seriously on the book. And the change in barometric pressure announcing a possible break in the heat made everything worse. So he cleaned a bit, took another shower and went out to do the weekly shop.

Just as he exited the supermarket a clap of thunder shook the city. A summer storm was beginning.

"Fantastic." He picked up his pace as large drops of rain started to fall.

In the end he almost ran towards his building, hands full, panting, shoes wet as water streamed down the sidewalk.

And there, on the stairs, sitting with his hands around his knees, his face hidden, t-shirt soaked through as rain poured, rocking slightly, Sherlock.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

He didn't respond.

John quickly shifted the bags to one hand, fished out his key, unlocked the entry door and set the bags inside. He then knelt on one knee next to Sherlock and touched one of his shoulders.

"Sherlock? Are you all right? Did something happen?"

The only response was a shudder, and he couldn't see his face to tell if he was hurt. The temperature was dropping and the rain was getting worse.

"Can you get up?" He took hold of the man gently and lifted him to his feet, he was worryingly light, then half-carried him inside the hallway. Sherlock was unsteady on his feet, swaying, completely wet, glasses missing, eyes red from crying. John was unnerved to see him in this state and wanted to know what happened, and fix it.

"OK, let's go up first, ok?"

They made it to the flat and John positioned Sherlock on the sofa. "Just let me get the bags. A second. Don't move, please." He made calming gestures but Sherlock just sank onto his side against the cushions.

He'd brought up the bags and left them in the kitchen. Sherlock hadn't moved and he sat next to him.

"Are you hurt?"

Small sobs.

He was lost at what to do.

"Do you want to get out of your wet clothes? Wear something of mine?"

Sherlock shook his head.

OK, that was something.

"All right." He started to get up. "I'll change, get us something to drink."

There was a small, pillow-muffled sound. John moved one hand to touch Sherlock's shoulder but then stopped just short, unsure if that would upset him more.

"You'll have to say that again, I couldn't understand."

"Are you together now?"

"What?"

Sherlock turned to look at him and John was heartbroken to see how much pain he was in.

"The bodybuilder."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense. Please, tell me what happened."

Sherlock was now sitting up, shaking badly, spasms of eyelids and hands scratching at the sofa.

"You spent a night in a hotel with him..."

He blinked. 

"Bill?! But..." He took a deep breath. "Bill is married, two kids, lives in New York. He's an old friend from university, in town for a day."

Sherlock looked at him and tears poured down his face.

"Fuck." John rubbed his hand over his eyes. "That's all, Sherlock. Just a friend, just a drink. I did not spend the night with him." And he was lost for words.

So, he opened his arms hoping Sherlock would allow a hug.

They looked at each other for a moment. One man in a gesture of total acceptance, the other quivering as his nose ran.

Finally Sherlock leaned into the embrace and with small shivers enveloped his arms around John's waist.

They stayed like this for a while. Wet and getting colder as the storm cooled down the city and the flat. Sherlock was finally calmly breathing. He pushed out of the hug.

His voice was tight. "I'm so sorry John."

John sighed. "I don't know what brought this on but we're fine now, right? No misunderstandings?"

A pause. "Are you terribly angry with me?"

"No, not angry. I am worried, though."

Sherlock bowed his head, his bottom lip pouting and beginning to shake a bit. John quickly brought him closer.

"Oh, no, no more of that. We're going to change into dry clothes and have a glass of water and talk about this. Are you hungry?"

"A bit..."

"Did you have lunch at least?"

No answer.

"Never mind. I bought a rotisserie chicken. It'll do. Come on now."

They ate, Sherlock wearing a t-shirt too wide for his frame, pajama bottoms that didn't reach his ankles.

"You can't do this. You can't panic every time I shake hands with another person."

Sherlock nodded, looking very sheepish. "I know."

"I will not go off and spend a night with someone else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, John." He chewed at a piece of bread.

"And I do have friends. And I do meet a lot of people through my work. I will meet some of them for drinks in the future."

Another shy nod. John should have been furious and yet all he wanted was to wrap the thin man in his arms and keep him forever.

Sherlock stayed the night. And promptly left in the morning for a meeting.

The next few afternoons there was always a short message asking if John had dinner plans. Never before six and never offering or insisting. John always said he was free, and Sherlock then arrived around eight with a takeaway, informing John of his half of the bill and serving the food onto plates.

And he'd always spend the night, and leave in the morning after a quick breakfast. The first two nights Sherlock was twitchy and neither of them got any sleep. Then things calmed down to a point where Sherlock was sleeping like a log even as summer morning sun washed over the bedroom.

John watched his sleeping form in the mornings. He was devastatingly beautiful but somehow thought himself the opposite. Long, pale, naked limbs stretched out over the bed. Unruly, greying curls. Small hot breaths. One hand always, always grasping John's wrist or hip. As if anchoring him.

John knew he was in love.


	11. Chapter 11

On the surface it all seemed fine. It wasn't.

Small smiles at breakfast that Sherlock always helped prepare, followed by quick exits, afternoon messages right on cue, carefully chosen dinners with quiet exchanges about the day. Sherlock's Twitter feed again only sheet music and links to other pianists' videos, recital dates. He was incredibly subdued. No more outbursts, provocations, no flirting or risqué jokes.

And the way he touched him, cautiously, tenderly. As if John were something to be revered from a distance. Breathy kisses and shaky caresses. Never initiating and always with that slightly panicked look on his face.

Sherlock was fucking terrified.

And John had no idea how to shake him out of it.

He tried arousing him in the morning but was met with a pliant partner who waited for permission to respond. In the evening they'd sit on the sofa reading together or watching a film and he always made sure to put his arm around the narrow shoulders, to hold Sherlock's hand. He bought him a small gift, a box of special Japanese pencils to mark his scores with. Sherlock thanked him profusely. And then kept silent for the rest of the evening.

A full week after the rain storm Sherlock crawled into bed next to him, damp from a shower that took much longer than usual, looking down and away to hide obviously tear-reddened eyes. John held him close and barely managed any sleep that night.

So, he came up with a plan. One that could fail miserably. Or possibly help them to fix this.

He got up early and canceled all his plans for the day by email, shut off his mobile. Then took a long time in the shower making sure he was meticulously clean, shaved and brushed his teeth.

He took a fresh bottle of lubricant and some towels from the bathroom and returned to bed. Judging from previous days he thought he had twenty or so minutes before Sherlock woke, so quite enough time, even for someone as out of practice as he was.

He moved his pillow to the footboard of the bed and, sitting back on his heels, leaned his chest on it. He checked over his shoulder, Sherlock was still sleeping, on his side and facing John. John could see his face and could imagine the view he was about to wake up to.

Slowly he reached one slick hand behind his back to smear lubricant between his buttocks. The coolness felt pleasant. Resting on his chest and other hand, eyes closed, he then gently massaged the tight muscle, not rushing, trying to relax. 

They'd explored each others bodies and had plenty of orgasms together, even during the past tense week, but he wanted to suggest something new, something he thought Sherlock might badly want.

He pushed one finger in and sighed. He was becoming aroused, from his own touch, but even more from being so exposed to the sleeping man behind him. He pushed another finger in and shivered. His breathing was becoming labored.

There was a choked cough behind him. So, no longer sleeping. John smiled into the pillow and pumped his slippery fingers in an obscenely slow tempo.

"John?" His voice was so small.

"Come here."

Now fully erect, aware how lewdly he was displayed, he allowed himself a tiny moan. And felt the mattress shift behind him.

"Yes?"

"Touch me, please."

"I... Where?" There was a trembling hand on his ankle.

He pulled out his fingers and spread his knees more, tilting his pelvis out.

"Oh..."

"Please."

There was some fumbling with the lubricant and he felt gentle fingertips slide down between his buttocks.

"Push inside."

Sherlock was far to gentle, the single apprehensive fingertip, but it was a start.

He moaned openly and pushed back. The hand on his ankle gripped hard.

"More, please, more."

Two long fingers pushed in deep and John started fucking himself on them. Sherlock was kissing his shoulders, touching his thigh and side with his free hand. John pulled that hand to grasp his cock.

"Please, I need you...more..."

"John..." The voice was unsure but another finger joined the two.

He was already so close but he really needed to shift the dynamic between them.

He caught Sherlock's wrist.

"Let me lay down." 

Sherlock moved his hands away and John turned to look at him. His cheeks were pink and he was breathy and very aroused. And so fucking gorgeous. John kissed him a bit too aggressively, biting at his lips and stroking his beautiful cock.

"You are incredible. Fuck me now, please."

Sherlock whined into his mouth.

John slid onto his stomach, pulling one pillow under his raised hips. Sherlock was staring with a broken expression, his chest moving far too fast. For a moment John was afraid he'd hyperventilate, but then those sensational hands moved to his hips. He spread his knees even further.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, please, Sherlock."

He felt the trickle of more lubricant, and then, finally, the uneasy stretch of his body as Sherlock pushed in with a broken groan.

The image of that long, lean body enveloping him and pushing into him was exhilarating. John was sure he wouldn't last long.

Sherlock, bracing on his forearms, thrust in gently and slowly, kissing John's shoulders softly as he whispered his name again and again, in awe.

John grabbed the headboard with both hands and pushed back impaling himself further as Sherlock stuttered.

"Harder, please, harder."

"I... I... oh..." Sherlock hesitated for a moment. And then quickened and deepened his thrusts.

John kept begging to be fucked, harder and deeper, and more.

And Sherlock did. One hand sliding under him to grasp his cock tightly, the other digging its fingers into John's hip. Sherlock was grunting loudly and fucking John with abandon, passionately, even savagely. 

John loved it. He screamed as he orgasmed.

A few rough trusts later Sherlock followed, shaky and loud. He lay on top of John with all his weight slowly catching his breath.

"John?" He gently moved off and brought one of the towels to wipe them both. "Are you all right?"

John turned on his back, smiling happily. And finally, fucking finally, Sherlock did too.

"That was amazing."

"Yes, it was." He looked down John's body. "It was not... too much? I did not hurt you?"

"Come." He opened his arms and Sherlock sunk in for a long kiss. "You did not hurt me, it was the best sex I've ever had, Sherlock."

"Yeah, it was very good." He snickered into the kiss. "Much better than the morning alarm. Will recommend it online."

John felt a weight fall off his shoulders.

"Come on sexy, shower, now."

"John, I'm forty, give me a sec. One fuck and you've become insatiable." And they laughed.

Breakfast was slow and lazy, conversation much easier, reaching for the toast an opportunity to graze a thigh or hip.

"I took the day off. No work, no plans."

Sherlock nodded.

"You busy?"

"The usual, piano, no meetings. Why?"

"I want to hear you play. Just for me."

He looked surprised. "Of course, whenever you want."

"After we finish eating?"

"All right."

Sherlock unlocked the door to his flat and stood aside running one hand through his hair. "I didn't tidy..."

John walked in and was stunned. The place looked like a bomb exploded. Papers, books and torn sheets of music all over the floor. One full shelf of things knocked down. Several plates on the floor by the piano with an unimaginable number of cigarette butts spilling out onto the carpet.

"Have I mentioned my anger management issues? One more facet of my wonderful personality." He laughed a bit nervously.

John brought him in for a soft kiss. "Never mind. We'll deal with it. It was a stressful week."

It was the first time either of them spoke about it aloud and Sherlock was looking down at his shoes.

"It's fine. Now, open the windows and let's dig out the piano. Maybe make some tea?"

A breath of fresh air, things stacked and put away, broken cups and ash swept up, they sat down on the sofa with cups of tea sorting the torn scores.

"I apologize for the mess. Thanks for helping with it."

"Well, better see the place at its worst light before moving in. Isn't there a proverb about that?"

Sherlock spilled some tea on his jeans and cursed.

"John?"

"I want to see that spare room."

"Are you sure? Please, don't joke about this."

"Not joking." He took one of Sherlock's hands and kissed it. "It is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course. But, I thought..."

"We can give it a try. I can't imagine not seeing you every day and all this running back and forth can't be healthy for you. And I am curious about those linen sheets..." He winked.

Sherlock laughed taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"Oh, man, the sales person, discussing lubricant stains and right kinds of detergent, I was dying!"

And he got up to sit at the piano.

"Something celebratory I think?"

John relaxed back into the pillows, watching and listening as Sherlock started on a very fast and complex, joyful composition, a wild grin on his face.


End file.
